


The Trouble with Trials

by obliviously_immortal



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blood and Violence, I mean what did you expect, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, So much death, Temporary Character Death, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obliviously_immortal/pseuds/obliviously_immortal
Summary: In which Nicolò di Genova simply can't mind his own business and ends up right in the middle of a witch trial. Yusuf has to save him from his own kindness, again. All he was trying to do was save a girl, is that really so bad?Yusuf Al-Kaysani would argue that, considering what it led to, yes. It had been a horrible idea to leave Nicolò on his own. And now he had to save him, as usual.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. Tove of Torsåker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
>  **Quick disclaimer** : there are many languages here that I do not speak so there was much reliance on Google and dictionaries. I try to be as accurate as possible but there are probably mistakes, so if you find them please just let me know and I'll fix it! Also, if you have any suggestions for making it better or sound more natural, I'm happy to learn!
> 
> There are no translations as most of it is only a few words that are understandable from context, but if you want translations, again I'm happy to add them in.
> 
> Also, I realise that some things that are said are not entirely time-accurate but I took some creative liberties and decided that they would probably be speaking Latin so everything in English is supposed to be Latin and any slang or similar is just translated from the accurate version. I am well aware that they did not speak Norse in Sweden in the 1600s but decided that Nicky probably wouldn't be too aware of that, having not visited very often. That being said, there is some Old Norse because it's relevant to the plot and I like it. The same goes for people's behaviour, I have never met anyone from the 1600s so I can't be entirely accurate.
> 
> Sorry that was kinda long lmao. I hope you like the first chapter! More coming soon :)

Nicolò drifted through the frosty streets of Torsåker, a remote village in the middle of Sweden whose name he could definitely not pronounce, no matter how many times Joe tried to teach him. It was too cold for his liking, anywhere above France always was in winter. His mind was elsewhere, waiting for Yusuf to return from some secret trip that he wasn't allowed to know anything about. While Nicolò always appreciated Yusuf's romantic gestures, he was tired of the cold and tired of the gawking stares from the people who realised he was a stranger. Considered the population of Torsåker was about 600 in total, that was pretty much every single person.

" _Mamma?_ " A child, not more than four years old, pulled at his leg, looking up at him with wide blue eyes. Nicolò froze for a moment, unsure of what to do.

Then he crouched down with a smile. "Hello. What's your name?" He doubted the child understood Latin, but he spoke next to no Norse and someone was bound to come looking for the little one soon anyway. If only Yusuf had been there, he actually spoke enough of the language to communicate, plus he was much better with children.

" _Mōþir?_ " The child frowned, pitch rising to a tone that signified she was about to cry.

"On no, no, no, don't cry!" Nicolò grimaced, wracking his brain for any Norse words that weren't highly inappropriate for the ears of a young child. " _Sé, hross._ " He pointed to a cow tethered to a fence post nearby. The child looked over and giggled, shaking her head.

" _Nej, kýr! Ko!_ " He understood the meaning well enough, he'd said the wrong word and she found it hilarious.

"Alright well why don't you teach me?" He pointed to a chicken wandering loose. "Chicken."

The girl seemed to understand what he meant, letting out another shrill giggle. " _Kjúklingr! Kyckling!_ " They sounded like completely made-up words to him, but he figured she probably knew her stuff. He had a feeling she was showing off in two languages because the words were slightly different and she was obviously proud. She seemed very confident in her ability to name animals, and definitely not so much in his.

As he was looking around for something else to challenge her with, he noticed a young man hurrying towards them. "Yrsa!" He swept the girl up into his arms, scolding her in a flow of words that Nicolò understood exactly zero percent of. The man seemed to be her father, he shared her pale blue eyes and ruddy-blonde locks.

"Pardon me, she seemed to be looking for someone but I can't understand her." He hoped the man spoke Latin, otherwise he was about to run into a problem in trying to explain that he was in fact not attempting to kidnap this child.

"She searches for her mother." The man replied, his Latin was broken and his accent was heavy but understandable nonetheless. "But she will not find her. Her mother has been named a witch."

"A witch?" Nicolò hadn't even realised that was still a thing, he thought the hunts ended years ago. "What did she do?"

"Nothing." The man snapped, then sighed. "The boys pointed her, that is all."

Nicolò was about to ask what he meant by that, but didn't get the chance as a shriek rang out across the square. " _Nej! Släpp mig! Troels! Yrsa!_ " The man's head snapped towards the source and Nicolò followed his gaze to see two men dragging a struggling girl through the snow, she couldn't have been more than seventeen years old. She wore a thin white dress, not nearly enough to keep out the biting cold.

" _Mamma!_ " Yrsa cried out, struggling to escape. She kicked her little legs and swung her little fists but the man held her tight, turning her in to his chest so she would not see.

The girl in the dress managed to wrench one arm free and reached for him. He held his arm out towards her, a silent understanding passing between them. " _Ek ann þér, Troels!_ "

" _Ek ann þér, Tove._ " He replied softly, holding Yrsa tighter to his chest. Nicolò didn't have to understand the language to know what they were saying. They reminded him of himself and Yusuf.

The men continued to drag her away, and she stopped fighting, tears streaming down her cheeks. Nicolò felt her pain stab at his heart. "You can't convince them she is innocent?"

"Innocence cannot be proved. They say she bears an invisible mark, a sign of the Devil. That she will take children and take them to _Blåkulla_. So now they will burn her." He stopped, and Nicolò knew he would say nothing more about it. There was a certain blankness in his demeanour, his eyes were clear, not a single tear. It was strange to see someone so unaffected; Nicolò suspected Troels was simply very good at hiding his emotions, in a way he himself could never understand. The entire village had that air of slight detachment, almost cold.

He wanted to say something, do something, whatever he could to take away the pain he knew all too well. But he sensed it would not be appreciated, already Troels was tuning away slightly, signalling his wish to leave. "The world can be cruel. I will ask God to watch over you and the child." Nicolò nodded to the man, and he nodded back curtly. It was a warning as much as a statement that he was not alone in his pain, neutral enough to avoid offence but hopefully provide some comfort.

"Thank you, friend." Then he walked away, Yrsa poking her tear-stained face out from under his arm with a tiny wave. Nicolò watched until they turned a corner and were gone into the town—the opposite direction to which the girl had been dragged.

"She's only a baby." Nicolò muttered to himself. Without him even realising, his feet had started to follow the men. Her cries had resumed, louder as he neared, but now she spoke in Latin.

"Save me, Lord, I am innocent! The greed of few men will be the death of many, this is not right. Let these people see the error of their ways," then her voice rose to a shriek, "and curse them all if they do not!" Seconds later, her scream echoed through the streets and Nicolò hurried after it.

He rounded a corner and almost ran straight into the two men, standing guard in front of a stone hut. There was a cross nailed to the wooden door. He decided to try his luck. "I am a priest and I have come by the Lord's holy guidance. Let me in." They glanced at each other and for a moment Nicolò thought maybe they didn't understand Latin. But one reached over and opened the door, calling something into the darkness. A shouted word, followed by a derisive laugh, drifted out in reply.

A muffled scream sounded from inside but the men blocked his path as he stepped forward. "You will wait." The first man said gruffly. Nicolò knew he had little choice. So he leaned back against the wall of the opposite building, pulling the cross from around his neck and clench his fist around it, praying for Yusuf to come back quickly. He hadn't prayed that desperately in what felt like forever, not since the last war.

The moments passed in unexpected silence, until the door opened and a man stepped out. He was towering and tattooed, reminiscent of his viking ancestors with long blonde hair, and would have been intimidating had Nicolò not faced entire armies of men like him. "You are a priest?"

"Yes. I received a message to come here, to speak to those accused." He was lying through his teeth now, he'd gotten good at it over the centuries. Back in the Crusades he'd thought of lying as a sin, but he now knew it was sometimes necessary, even if he did not like it.

"From whom?" The man crossed his scarred arms, reaching up to twist at a braid in his beard.

"The Lord Almighty, of course. I seek witches, and He told me I would find them here." Nicolò held up his cross, letting it swing towards the door like a pendulum.

"I see. I am Ulf, a witch finder of sorts. I too seek witches, and when I find them they burn. Do you burn witches, witch-finder?" Ulf grinned grotesquely.

"If it is the Lord's wish." Nicolò shrugged lightly. Ulf laughed and stepped aside, gesturing with open arms for him to enter the hut. Nicolò did, and the door slammed shut behind him. He sighed and called out into the darkness. "Hello?"

"Have you come to pray for my soul? I believe Ulf just stole whatever was left of it." The voice that answered him was amused but tired, as if the world weighed too much for her. It was not the voice of a girl with her life ahead of her, it was the voice of a young woman who knew she was about to die.

"I've come to save you." Nicolò replied softly, following her voice to its source. In the light of a tiny window he saw her, curled up on a thin layer of straw. Her dress was torn and her face was bloodied. She raised her head slightly to look at him, then let it fall back with a dejected sigh.

"You were with Troels. Ulf will burn you too." She winced as she shifted her position, turning to face him. "Why have you come for me? You cannot change my fate."

"I've spent my life helping innocent people like you, I will not stand by and watch you die." He replied, looping the cross around his neck. "I promise you, you will see your family again."

But before he could take another step, the door swung open. On the other side stood Ulf, gripping the collar of a boy. "Do it." He growled and the boy raised a shaking hand to point at Nicolò. Ulf released the boy and shoved him away roughly as he stepped into the hut. "You have been named a witch, _witch-finder_." He cackled. "You lie to save this witch, but you will watch them all burn and then you too will die."

Nicolò's hand went to the hilt of his sword but Ulf was fast and the room was small. He barely had time to block Ulf's fist flying towards his face, and certainly not to draw his weapon. He would have to fight by hand.

Another fist swung dangerously close and he dodged it, answering with a blow of his own that found its mark in Ulf's stomach. But it had no effect, the giant was unfazed and continued his attack. "Please, you will never beat him!" The girl called out somewhere in the background.

"Listen to the wretch, witch-finder. She may be the spawn of demons but she knows the strength of a true warrior." Nicolò was really starting to grow tired of this repulsive brute.

Suddenly a fist came at his face and he moved back to dodge it but it had been a distraction; a dagger flashed in the other hand before it was embedded into his neck. He cried out in pain, and Ulf's leering grin swam in from of his eyes as the world spun for a moment.

Nicolò reached up to yank the blade out and the wound closed up almost instantly. Ulf's smile was wiped off his face and his eyes widened, though Nicolò couldn't tell if it was in horror or intrigue.

"The Lord protects me. Does He protect you?" Nicolò was angry now, angrier than he'd been in a very long time. He slashed with the knife but Ulf dodged the swipes. He knew his anger was making him sloppy, making him lose control, but he couldn't stop it. He liked to think of himself as peaceful, a good person, but sometimes even he would snap.

He saw it coming too late, midway through a lunging strike, Ulf manoeuvred around it and twisted the knife from his hand. Then Nicolò knew it was over, there was no point in fighting it. He didn't even try when Ulf drove the blade into his heart. Instead, he grinned with bloody teeth and said, "You fight well. I will kill you when I wake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this is based on the Torsåker witch trial that took place in 1675, where 71 people were beheaded and burned. I did quite a bit of research but there are no doubt a few things that didn't actually happen. Also, I looked into death by burning and damn, not fun. But makes for a more accurate story. Now you know what I spend my time researching. Does that make me dedicated or weird? Not really sure. See you next chapter :)


	2. Death of a Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Et voilà, here starts the wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff! (couldn't stop myself)  
> Side note: should I post my playlist for this fic? It's a bit of a mess, not very cohesive but it's got some bops. Basically just what I listen to while writing this. Let me know in the comments if it's a thing you're interested in.  
> Welcome to chapter 2, enjoy the ride :)

Yusuf was anxious to leave. He knew Nicolò was probably bored out of his mind wandering around the little village he'd left him in. He really hadn't meant to be gone for long, only a few hours, he'd promised. But the merchant had refused to sell him what he wanted, despite being more than willing in the letters they had exchanged, and it took much persuasion to finally reach an agreement. Of course Yusuf hadn't counted on having to give away half his money, but he could always get more. Nicolò's happiness was worth more than all the gold in the world. Looking back, it probably hadn't been the best idea to go into the discussion willing to give up everything, even if he hadn't actually said that.

The package was rectangular and wrapped, awkward to carry under his arm, and it earned him some strange stares—though that might have been because he was very obviously not a local. Nicolò always blended better, but even he would have stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd of pale blondes and redheads. It was as if none of them had ever seen the sun. Yusuf was definitely not suited to the climate, he longed for the heat. But this was where the object of his search was and he was not about to let a little cold interrupt his hundred-year hunt. Nothing would stop him from getting it back to Nicolò.

The journey to Torsåker wouldn't take more than an hour, if he hurried he'd make it before dark and they could ride on to meet Andy. But first he had to get out of Sandviken, which was easier said than done. The streets were packed with people, carts, horses and stalls. Apparently it was market day, if the shouts of merchants hoping to sell their wares were any indication. His limited understanding of Swedish got him that far at least.

Market day was obviously a big event in this town, Yusuf suspected people from nearby villages had come in to take part. Still, it was almost impossible to move. Had the streets gotten smaller in the last few hours? A woman crossed his path carrying a basket of fish with a pungent smell of fermentation and he grimaced, turning away. Nordic people certainly had a strange definition of good food.

"No one asked your opinion, southerner." The woman snapped, noting his expression and sending him a look of disgust. He was rather pleased to realise he'd understood her easily, perhaps his Swedish was better than he'd thought.

"My apologies." He replied with a quick bow of his head, then moved swiftly onward. Hostile looks followed him from those that heard the exchange. Why, he couldn't be sure, but he certainly didn't want to stay and find out why they were all looking at him like he'd spit in their faces.

So he hurried to the end of the street, where he'd left his horse. She was still there, a dappled brown mare tethered to a fencepost and looking entirely unamused by the people crowding around. If horses could look bored, she was a prime example. Yusuf smiled and stroked her nose lovingly, switching to Arabic without even thinking. "Did you miss me, Farah?" He could've sworn she rolled her eyes and he chuckled as he fastened the package to one of the saddlebags. "Sorry it's not the best solution, but it won't be long, I promise." He untied the reins and led her onward towards the edge of the town.

The crowd parted much easier now that he had a horse, suddenly he was like a rock in a river. The threat of being trampled by a horse was obviously a better motivator than the threat of being asked to move by a foreigner. He hadn't really expected anything else, people this far north were more sceptical, remote towns and villages did not get many visitors like him. Of course, knowledge of this attitude only made people stay away, when perpetuated the cycle. Every community was just as stubborn.

But, despite glares and whispered suspicion, he reached the edge of the town without trouble. He relaxed, suddenly realising how tense he'd been, automatically ready for and expecting a fight. He looked around, scanning for anyone waiting to ambush him, found no one. Then he pulled his scimitar from one of the saddlebags and fastened the belt around his waist. After one last glance around, he swung himself up into the saddle, grabbing the reins.

Farah shook her mane with a snort. He smiled, then clicked his tongue and urged the horse onward. "Come Farah, Nicolò waits for us." They took off in a burst of speed, leaving the unwelcoming town far behind. Soon the steady rise and fall of the mare's movements lulled him into a meditative state as the trees blurred by.

He felt a sudden urge to pray, as if a greater force was calling to him. Memories floated to the surface, when he first met the love of his life. All he wanted was to hold Nicolò in his arms again, and not let him go for at least a month. One day was too long for them to be apart—what if something happened and Yusuf wasn't there to stop it? He couldn't shake the feeling of dread.

As expected, it wasn't too long before he spotted Torsåker in the distance. A scream echoed through the forest, and he saw clouds of dark smoke rising between the trees. Worry and panic gripped his heart. Farah seemed to sense his unease and hastened her pace. The small town sign greeted him at the boundary but he flew past it, determined to find his Nicolò. If something had happened...

The smoke billowed from several large fires burning at the top of a hill and the screams grew louder as he neared. The scene on the peak made him freeze in horror, pulling Farah to a stop. The inhabitants of the village were grouped silently—no, not just silent but emotionless, expressionless, cold—in front of the fires, in which decapitated bodies burned. But in the centre—Yusuf almost couldn't believe his eyes—was a large pyre and tied to a stake the centre of the blaze was a girl.

Her screams grew weaker as the flames licked at her skin and smoke entered her lungs but no one moved to help her. Yusuf was too shocked, too slow to do anything but stare. Blocking the crowd from advancing was a group of menacing-looking men. Then Yusuf realised they were keeping the crowd back from someone else, a man with a sack over his head and bound arms, turned to face the girl. Another man stepped forward, muscled and tattooed, to pull the hood from his head in a flash. "See, witch, there is no place for your kind here!"

A third man, armed with a bloodied axe, lumbered over to the pair as the large one forced his captive to the ground. There was no way Farah would get through the crowd so Yusuf slid off to push and elbow his way through frantically. The people were loud now, shouting and raising their fists angrily. But Yusuf didn't care because he recognised the prisoner, the "witch", with shaggy brown hair and sea-blue eyes, blood drying into his shirt. It was his love, his light, his Nicolò.

"Stop!" He screamed as he surged forward like an arrow through the throng. "Stop! Please, stop!" But no one listened, the roar of the mob drowned out his pleas. No one even paid him any attention, not the smallest glance.

What had seemed before like only a few people suddenly felt like thousands as they pushed and shoved. It was hard to breathe, panic tightened his chest, like the people were crushing him, he was drowning in the mob.

Then he burst through and locked eyes with Nicolò, just as the axe fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry


	3. Penance of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I hope you don't still hate me for the ending of the last chapter. If you do, this one probably won't make it better...

It hadn't been long when Nicolò opened his eyes again, but they'd managed to tie his hands behind his back and wrap him in so much rope he felt like a mummy. It reminded him of a story Andy had told him, when the Egyptians had thought she was a god and mummified her after she died. Come to think of it, that was probably where the stories of undead mummies came from.

Moving would be a challenge and he certainly couldn't break free. So much for the murder he'd promised. He was calm now, but his anger at Ulf had not diminished in the slightest. That man would pay for what he had done.

Tove sat across from him, knees brought up to her chest and head bowed as she mumbled softly. He recognised the same words he would speak every time his Yusuf died. "Are you praying for me?"

Her head shot up and she gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth. "You are not dead. I did not believe-" She stopped, shaking her head.

"Do not be afraid. I am no more a witch than you. God prevents me from dying. Why, I do not know. He works in mysterious ways." He smiled gently, it seemed to reassure her. Yusuf always told him his smile could make anyone feel safe, melt the coldest of hearts. He wasn't too sure about that, but he would do what he could to help Tove.

"There are tales of ones like you, undying warriors. The _einherjar_." That word he'd never heard before, he concluded it must be some Norse legend. Most religions had some indication of the group, or at least of Andy and Quynh. Yusuf would know, he had always been more aware of the world. Frankly, Nicolò didn't care all that much what was happening as long as Yusuf was there with him. "I never thought I would see it with my own eyes."

The door burst open with a slam and, surprise surprise, Ulf stepped inside. Tove flinched at the sound and backed away to the corner. "I confess, I was not certain you would wake. But you have proven me right, witch." He mused as he approached Nicolò, who raised an eyebrow, entirely unamused. Tove called out something in rapid Norse that made Ulf laugh, a harsh and grating sound. "Do not speak to me of such pagan heresy, wretch. He will burn, just like you. Not even a witch can return from the dead without a head."

Ulf might have a point, could he survive decapitation? But Nicolò shrugged—or rather, moved his shoulders as best he could under the restriction of the ropes—and smirked. "Are you certain?" He prayed with all his being that his tell-tale heart wouldn't give him away, he could feel it thumping like it was trying to break free from its cage. What if he never saw Yusuf again? What if the last words he spoke to the love of his life were " _hurry back or I might leave you_ "? Those were stupid last words. He should've told Yusuf how he loved him more than anything, more than life itself, how he was his sun and his light, everything good in the world. If he made it out of this, he would never leave Yusuf's side again.

Ulf frowned, said nothing. Instead he looked to Tove and snapped something that sounded unpleasant. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, a flicker of spirit shining through in her defiance. In that moment, she looked just like Andy.

But it didn't deter the man, who grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet. Nicolò could do nothing, straining against the ropes helplessly as she twisted and kicked to get free of his grip, to no avail. Ulf hauled her out of the hut, laughing tauntingly. Nicolò took a deep breath, he would save her when he got free. Struggling would do nothing for him.

So he closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed for Yusuf to return, for Tove to be safe, for the ropes to loosen. As he spoke softly into the emptiness, his hands worked of their own accord to find a way to untie the knots. It was peaceful, he didn't let the situation pressure him. It wouldn't have helped. If there was one thing the centuries had taught him, it was patience.

A terrible itch on his left leg was clamouring for his attention, making it increasingly difficult to focus. Apparently he wasn't as good at clearing his mind as he'd thought. "I'm beginning to think perhaps you don't like me very much." He said out loud without thinking. It was something Andy would have said, born of frustration, and he regretted his words immediately—he was half expecting a bolt of lighting to smite him on the spot—but the itch disappeared, so at least that was something. God knew his heart, his intentions, even if sometimes his words were wrong. "I'm sorry, I did not mean that. Thank you."

Then his fingers found a loose knot and moments later the ropes fell away. Nicolò grinned, leaping to his feet. His back cracked and he felt stiff but at least he was free. His hands were still tied tightly behind his back but it wasn't hard to get his legs through and bring them to the front. He'd been captured enough times over the last six hundred years to know how to free himself.

The only one to successfully keep him captured had been Yusuf. Not physically of course, he'd had always escaped any ropes, but Yusuf had taken his heart. Still, it had been fun watching him grow increasingly frustrated in the early days as Nicolò got out of everything he tried. Yusuf had never been very good at the art of escape, but he was getting better under Nicolò's guidance. Then again, Yusuf wasn't the one tied up and about to be decapitated, was he? Perhaps Nicolò had a penchant for escape because he had a talent for getting caught.

It must have been God's berating twist to have Ulf return right as he was reaching for the door handle, punishment for his nonchalance. The door swung open—almost smacking him in the face too—and there stood three men, both of Ulf's friends pointing bows at him. They'd certainly kill him before he could do anything so he shrugged and held up his bound hands. "What now? Which of us do you think will reach hell first?"

It was a daring statement, one he hoped God would ignore and the men would fear. He was on thin ice as it was, but desperation brought out words he didn't know he had. The idea that he might go to hell reared its shadowed head every now and then, bringing a deeply unsettling feeling with it. He tried to live a good life but he'd killed more people than he could count. They were always bad people, would that make a difference to God? Nicolò usually did his best to push the thoughts aside, but now he wanted the bring that terror to them.

The arrow didn't hurt as much as he'd expected, loosed from the bow of a quivering young man. He'd nearly forgotten the feeling, it had been years since someone had shot him. He was almost offended, but deep down he was a little proud that they saw him as that much of a threat—guilt quenched his pride immediately. If Andy had been there she would've laughed at him, quipped something about how he was becoming more like her.

Suddenly he was the one afraid, afraid he was losing his humanity, and not even dead. The arrow had pierced his side, it would have been a slow and painful death had he been mortal. He felt the wound trying to close but the arrow had done its job, distracting him long enough for the men to grab him. They forced a sack over his head, it smelled of potatoes and dirt. He didn't struggle, knowing they'd lead him to Tove. He would kill them then or die trying, and then kill them.

The arrow in his side was annoying more than anything else, bringing a sharp pain to every step. But he would not let it break his determination. Already he was fiddling with the rope, trying discreetly to free his hands. It wasn't going too well but he'd get there eventually.

Nicolò's concentration broke off as suddenly a wave of pain coursed through his body like lightning, making him stumble. The rope fell free, instantly ruining his plan. However he was much too overwhelmed to care, let alone try fight, barely even registering what happened. Words were hissed but the ringing in his ears drowned it out. Someone had stabbed him in the back and his nerves were on fire. Whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing, driving the blade agonisingly closer to his spine, and then he felt nothing. Empty nothing.

He wasn't dead but he didn't feel alive. It reminded him of hovering on the edge of death, so close but not quite there. Yet he wasn't dying, somehow he knew it. It was almost worse: he could no longer feel anything below his chest, couldn't even tell if they were walking or still. The sack obscured his view of the world, only the tight grip on his arms assured him that he was actually still there, not drifting towards the afterlife.

Someone forced his arms behind his back and bound them again. He registered it numbly, like it was happening to someone else. Feeling was gradually returning as the nerves reconnected, and with it came the pain in every single one. The pain seemed to go on for hours but he knew it hadn't been long. He healed fast, it was nothing new.

Then the realisation hit him: it wasn't his ears that were ringing anymore, someone was screaming.

Suddenly the hood was pulled from his head and he was blinded by the light of the sun—no not the sun, something much more orange. A roaring fire. The heat rushed towards him like an unrelenting wave as the flames snapped into focus.

It took a moment for him to realise what he was seeing. Standing in the flames, like a burning phoenix, was Tove. Then he saw the stake she was tied to, how she screamed. He was too late.

He should've killed Ulf when he had the chance, should've fought harder, should've escaped quicker. She was burning and it was his fault.

"See, witch, there is no place for your kind here!" Ulf towered above him, Nicolò realised somewhere in the back of his mind that he was kneeling on the grass, he could not yet feel the tiny green blades. The roar of an angry crowd surged up behind but he paid it no heed, eyes fixed on the flames.

He felt numb, not just in his nerves, suspended in time while everything happened around him. A soft prayer fell from his lips, but it felt like nothing compared to the ever-consuming flames. His words would be taken by the flames before they reached her.

Ulf forced him to the ground, he didn't even think to fight. It was over, there was no way he could win. He'd broken his promise, this was his penance. Another man stood above, wielding a large and bloody axe. Nicolò turned his gaze to the crowd, to the wave of anger directed at him. He felt sorry for them, they were misguided and did not truly understand God's will. They would one day.

Then a darker face burst through the pale crowd, he knew those eyes, was that Yus—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm a horrible person.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone's who's still here! You have no idea how happy it makes me to see that people are actually reading this! And thank you for the comments, they make my day :)


End file.
